For Calico, With Love and Shakespeare
by Fortitudine
Summary: An utterly silly bit of pre-Christmas whimsy, "full of sound and fury and signifying nothing."  Written for Ms. Calico Cat.  Long may she write.


**For Calico, With Love and Shakespeare**

_He does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural (either W. Shakespeare or J. Curry. Take your pick)._

"Are you sure you wanna do this to us?" the dark-haired ex-outlaw asked.

"Yep." The woman at the computer pushed her glasses back up her nose and peered at the screen. "I owe her a favor. She's the one who got me started writing about you boys."

"But Shakespeare? _Shakespeare_? I'm never gonna live it down!"

"Nonsense. You and the Bard were made for each other." He opened his mouth to protest, and she warned, "Keep whining, and I'll write you straight into a doublet and a pair of those pointy-toe shoes."

"Do I at least get to shoot somethin'?" The plaintive question came from a corner where a curly-headed young man in a ratty sheepskin coat and a (preferred, Season 1) brown hat sat cross-legged, leaning against the wall. "You never let me shoot nothin'. Dang, woman, you never even let me draw!"

"Can't do it. Whenever I try to write a scene where you start flipping that hogleg around, I feel as though Master Sergeant Holycross is standing behind me, breathing down my neck."

"Master what who?"

"Master Sergeant Holycross. He ran the pistol range at Quantico. And if he'd ever caught you pulling some of those fancy stunts of yours, he'd have ripped you a new one."

"New one what?"

"Ah…figure of speech. Put a sock in it, Kid, I'm trying to work here." Her fingers rattled the keyboard like castanets.

"For someone who used to be in the shootin' business, you're awful narrow-minded about guns," he jibed.

"_Sidearms_. The word 'gun' technically should be used only when referring to crew-served weapons."

"Like I said, narrow-minded. Ain't that a terrible handicap when you're writin' about a notorious fast-drawin' outlaw?"

"The problem with being a Marine," she remarked to no one in particular, "is that lesser beings are always trying to hobble you with their own perceived limitations."

He stopped to think about that for a minute.

"Do I get the girl this time?" Dark-hair asked, hopefully.

"Only if you keep it PG. I can't write porn, either."

"C'mon, now," he wheedled. "Smart lady like you, went to college and all? Sure you can!"

She pointed with her chin to the adjacent bedroom, where a weary man lay sleeping the sleep of the just—or rather, the sleep of a middle-school teacher with six class periods, lunchroom duty and a study hall. "Not with him around."

"Your husband? He's asleep!"

"He's also a pillar of the Methodist church. It's bad enough that I blog and I write fanfic, but this is a very small town and if anyone ever found out I wrote something even remotely smutty—"

"All right, all right!

"They've been whispering about me ever since that Christmas potluck when I showed up with a bottle of Prosecco—"

"I said all right!"

"Methodists don't drink?" wondered the other man. "Damn. I thought that was just the Baptists."

"You and me both. My Grannie MacMahon warned me about marrying a Protestant."

"Listen," Dark-hair said after a moment. "The lady you're writing this for. Isn't she the one who keeps making us eat porridge? I don't even know what it is but it sounds awful—"

"I'm not sure. I know she's the one who keeps putting you in bathtubs. And porridge is oatmeal."

"Why don't she say 'oatmeal' then?"

"She's English. 'Two countries separated by a common language,' you know."

Sheepskin Coat spoke up. "Is that Shakespeare?"

"Shaw."

"I just asked a question, ain't no call to be rude." He stood up and wandered over to prop one shoulder against the bedroom doorjamb. "He reminds me of somebody." Crossing his arms, he contemplated the sleeping spouse for a moment. "Him an' me's got the same color hair."

"Yep."

"Same color eyes."

"Yep."

"Same nose."

"Yep."

"An' he's got a scar on his chin."

"Yep."

"An' you're s'posed to be a Heyes gal?"

"Yep."

"Can't you say something besides 'yep?'?" Dark-hair asked, irritated. "If you are one of my gals, you sure got a funny way of showing it. Half the stories you write's about _him_. What is it with you women and them big blond fellas, anyway?"

"For starters, they know when to shut up."

Sheepskin Coat snickered. His partner ignored him. "So this thing you're writin'—whaddaya call it, again?"

"A pastiche. I'm trying to adapt _Twelfth Night_ for the two of you. Which line do you like better, _by the very fangs of malice, I swear I am not that I play_, or _I_ _delight in masques and revels_?"

"Hey!" Sheepskin Coat objected. "We never wore no masks."

"So who all is in this play?" Dark-Hair cut in.

"Well, there's Orsino."

"What's his angle?"

"He's a duke. Smooth operator, bosses everybody around."

Dark-Hair grinned. His partner groaned.

"I can tell you who's gonna grab that one! Who else is there?'

"Sebastian. He's shipwrecked and broke—"

"I might a' known!"

"—but he's also brave and very loyal to his friend. And he gets Orsino's girl."

"Hold on a minute—who does Orsino get?" Dark-hair asked.

"He gets Sebastian's sister."

Sheepskin Coat uttered a crack of laughter. "Like hell he does."

"Play nice, boys. Which one of you wants this line? _Shape thou thy silence to my wit_."

"That's his," said Sheepskin Coat, morosely. "Fits him like a glove."

"_Give me leave to prove you a fool_."

"That'd be his, too."

"_He is very well-favoured_."

"MINE!" they said in unison.

She looked over the top of her glasses. "Perhaps I should ask for a poll on that. Okay, how about: _Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage?_"

"I'd have to say that one belongs to Lom," Dark-hair stated and the other man nodded agreement.

"_Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before 'em_?"

"His." Sheepskin Coat jerked a thumb sideways.

"_I see what you are, you are too proud. But if you were the devil, you are fair_."

"I'm always fair," said Dark-hair.

"Yeah, you an' that coin of yours."

"_Pistol him, pistol him!"_

"Why are you even askin'?" Dark-hair inquired. His partner permitted himself a modest smile.

"_If I do not gull him…do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed_."

"What does 'gull' mean?" asked Sheepskin Coat.

"Um…to trick or con someone."

"We know the answer to that, don't we?" he snorted. "Well, now I know for sure you're a Heyes gal. He's got almost all the lines. Again!"

"Tell you what, Kid, I'll let you have the last one."

He eyed her warily. "Oh, yeah? What is it?"

"_Here's an overweening rogue!" _

"Naah," said Sheepskin Coat. "That's his, too."

Dark-Hair grinned, smugly. Then the penny dropped.

"Boys….! BOYS! Stop it right now, that chair's a family heirloom-!"


End file.
